


you're burning hot (but warm to the touch)

by rikacain



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:56:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An X-Men AU. </p><p>Alternatively: Five times Aziraphale uses his powers for Crowley and one time Crowley uses his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're burning hot (but warm to the touch)

**Author's Note:**

> For littlewolfstar as part of the GO Holiday Exchange.

1.

"Truce," the man yelps as Aziraphale leaps to his feet, ready to defend himself. "No, really - I don't want to fight."

Aziraphale regards the intruder warily. The man is wearing one of the Uprising's slick uniforms, and those bunch did lean towards violence more often than not. Gabriel did warn him that Lucifer might be sending some people after the artifact Michael said held some sort of power, and he was expecting a fight.

What he didn't expect, however, was to be snowed in and in a cave, no less.

"You're with the other lot right? They told us to watch out for you but not for the bloody snow - could have done with a warning, almost freezed my balls off there," the man says, tripping over his words in his haste. "Look mate, I just want to survive the day and this was the first place I could run into that isn't filled with snow and can I stay? I won’t even talk to you. I’m not going kill you - or I can't, actually, my powers are useless."

"What can you do?" Aziraphale interrupts, curiosity overcoming his wariness.

"Nothing. This," and the man slides off his sunglasses to reveal a pair of bright golden eyes. He squints fiercely at Aziraphale before replacing them onto his face. "Does nothing. Utterly useless."

Aziraphale considers - he could chase the man out into the snow, and leave him to freeze. It would mean one less complication in the grand scheme of mutant clashes. But he could also just wait the snowstorm out with the man, and they could do the whole _your side my side_ routine later.

"Look, if not just let me leave and I'll try to find someplace," the man interjects, moving slowly and reluctantly towards the mouth of the cave.

"No," Aziraphale says, surprising himself. "Stay."

The man stops, clearly surprised, before gingerly making his way over to Aziraphale. He comes to a halt at a pile of slightly damp twigs scrounged up from the sparse shrubbery barely clinging off the walls.

"Thanks, really - you're a literal lifesaver." The man glances down. "Are you trying to start a fire? I could help."

"That won't be necessary," Aziraphale says absently, snapping his fingers.

A small white flame swirls into existence and drifts towards the pile of twigs. The other man watches as the twigs catch fire and begins to burn.

"You could have just threw a fireball at me the moment I stepped in here," he says, awe written across his countenance.

"I could," Aziraphale agrees. "Tea?"

* * *

2.

They’re on the cusp of the new year, and for the umpteenth time Aziraphale wonders why he is spending New Year’s Eve with someone he cannot truly call a friend.

(He knows the answer to that - the alternative was dressing up and going to one of Gabriel’s parties, a entirely mind-numbing affair that mostly involves politics. Gabriel is scarily efficient at politics.)

“Blast it,” Crowley swears from his position on the ground.

Aziraphale wanders over to see the man crouching over a pile of fireworks, and a pile of unsuccessfully stricken matches. Crowley chucks the matchbox into a dark corner of the field and stands back up, brushing dirt off his suit and trousers.

“No fireworks for us this year,” Crowley says, shrugging. “Another bottle, angel?"

(Aziraphale never understands the nickname - but secretly, he’s flattered.)

“That seems like an awful waste of fireworks,” Aziraphale frowns.

“Can’t light it up, and I’m not keeping it for next year - I mean, the year after.” Crowley grimaces. “I wouldn’t have a clue where to keep it, and you wouldn’t want flammables in your bookshop, would you?”

Crowley nods at his own question and strolls back to the ice box, fishing out another bottle of wine. Meanwhile, Aziraphale stands where he is and considers the prepared fireworks, standing upright in a neat row.

“Such a waste,” he repeats.

He ends up setting the fireworks off fifteen minutes before the year has actually ended, but the look on Crowley’s face is nevertheless gratifying.

* * *

3.

“We left this for a bit too long,” Crowley observes.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. “I am not a microwave."

They are sitting on a couch in front of Crowley's television, boxes of Thai takeout strewn across the table in front of them. Usually their ritual consisted of dining out at any restaurant that catches their fancy, but today neither of them felt particularly active. Also, they haven’t had Thai in a really long while.

Crowley grins at him, still holding the box of pad thai out for Aziraphale to take.

“Think about it, angel,” he reasons. “Would you want to get up, walk all the way to the microwave, turn it on and wait for five minutes - or would you want to heat it up here and now?"

“I could always eat it cold,” Aziraphale says peevishly.

“You could,” Crowley agrees. “But it wouldn’t taste good and you know it."

Aziraphale scowls at his friend, who smirks back. Crowley does have a point, he thinks grudgingly - he could just warm it up here, quick and easy. Today is a lazy day after all.

Before he could change his mind, he leans over to snatch the box out of Crowley’s hand.

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley crows in triumph.

“Oh, do shut up,” Aziraphale says without any real heat, focusing on warming the pad thai up without burning it.

* * *

4.

He's almost too late.

For all of their promises, they  were separated in the first wave. Aziraphale had turned away for a second as Crowley sprayed suppressants from a water gun onto the charging mutants; the next second, Crowley had disappeared from sight. With no one to cover his back, Aziraphale had to fend for himself as he fought his way through the field.

He can see Hastur in the distance, snarling at a figure on the ground. “Who the fuck do you think you are, using that poison - "

"And killing them would have been better?" Crowley shoots back, defiant even on his knees.

"You take away their powers and expect them to thank you for it - " Hastur makes a sharp clenching motion with his hand, and Crowley cries out in pain as the sand tomb he is entrapped in squeezes him tighter.

Aziraphale doesn't wait. He runs at them, swiping those in his way to the side with a whip of fire. The sword in his hand trembles, and he _runs._

Hastur never sees him coming.

He plunges the sword up into Hastur's ribcage, the flesh giving way like a penny dropped into a mound of wet sand. Hastur coughs just the once and turns around, heedless of the blade in his torso. The flesh cleaves where the sword cuts, and molds back together where the sword leaves.

"Try again," Hastur sneers.

"Certainly," Aziraphale asserts coolly, and the sword flares to life.

The mutant's eyes widen as he realises what is happening, but it is far too late. Aziraphale grips the sword tight and wills it hotter and hotter as the other mutant tries to escape. Instead of a grainy shower of sand, the smooth clarity of glass emerges at the point where Aziraphale's sword runs through his body and spreads like a plague, flesh and blood turned transparent and fragile.

Aziraphale sees through Hastur's frightened countenance for one moment, and down at Crowley.

What was once Hastur splinters to a million pieces, and shatters to the ground. Aziraphale's sword burns hot and fiery, the blade almost molten and white enough to match the flames.

They stare at each other, disbelieving. The sand holding Crowley captive turns formless, sliding off Crowley into a mound on the ground.

"Crowley," Aziraphale finally breathes out, casting his sword aside and dropping to the floor. The sea of broken glass glitters around them, digging sharply into his knees. Crowley leans into the hug, breathing heavily.

"Angel," Crowley whispers, like a man who has at long last found his relief. 

* * *

5.

It can get quite cold in their small little cottage in South Downs.

Aziraphale cracks an eye open as ice-cold feet brushes against his thigh. Crowley has curled himself into a ball even with all the layers of clothing he went to sleep in. While Aziraphale can keep himself warm enough in most conditions, Crowley is incapable of doing so.

He turns over and snaps his finger, and a small fire begins to crackle merrily behind the small grate. Its size is insufficient to heat the room immediately, but well - that's something Aziraphale can do for Crowley on his own.

Aziraphale reaches over to pull Crowley to his chest, curls around him and goes back to sleep.

* * *

(+ 1).

"I'm Aziraphale," the first Aziraphale insists.

"I am," the second interrupts, his tone acidic. "Kindly refrain from assuming my form, Leviathan."

"Kindly refrain from assuming mine," the first says indignantly. "Crowley, dear, pay no attention to him."

They look the same, Crowley thinks, impressed with the shapeshifter's abilities. From the clothes to the posture, the two Aziraphales were eerily similar. If one hadn't walked in just as the other one was about to lead him somewhere, he would have remained none the wiser.

Or perhaps not. Crowley sighs and slips off his sunglasses, rubbing at his eyes. The two of them are still bickering, and one is still attempting to mislead him.

He readies his spray gun, points to the left, and pulls the trigger.

Aziraphale on the left shudders and falls to the ground as his appearance distorts itself grotesquely into a short and stout woman. Aziraphale on the right - the real Aziraphale - stares at Crowley, taken by surprise.

"My dear," Aziraphale says faintly. "How did you know?"

"She's not very good at being you," Crowley says evasively. "Come on, angel. We've got to catch up to Anathema."

"R-right." Nonplussed, Aziraphale turns to a direction and begins to lead them away from Leviathan, who has been rendered unconscious on the floor. He’s not surprised - people with physical mutations are more vulnerable to the effects of the suppressants. "She mentioned a marking this way, I believe..."

His mutation is still useless. A singular occasion wouldn't change that. There's not much point in being able to see auras and being unable to decipher or do anything with them; one particular color could have a thousand meanings. Auras aren't people reading devices.

All he knows is that they're all bright splotches of colour that follow everyone around, and that they're hell on his eyes. Aziraphale’s aura is no exception - white as his flames, and as searing as the sun.

(There’s a reason why he calls Aziraphale angel after all.)

Smiling fondly, Crowley shoves the sunglasses back onto his nose and saunters after.


End file.
